White Horse
by theplanetmary
Summary: Dean Winchester never felt like a knight. LikeUs Universe Oneshot.


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**White Horse**

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"**And I saw Heaven opened, and behold a white horse; and he that sat upon him was called Faithful and True, and in righteousness he doth judge and make war…"**

**-The Bible**

**…**

_**Owyhee Mountain Range**_

_**Tuscarora, Nevada**_

Dean Winchester had never felt like a knight.

Never imagined himself as one. Not in play or in dreams. Even before that night in the nursery.

He'd always been a fireman, a pilot or a cowboy, once or twice a soldier in the Vietnam war like his father had been in reality.

And after Azazel took his mother away Dean had always been a Hunter. In play and reality.

But never a knight.

He'd been called a 'knight in shining armor' or sometimes a 'knight in leather' sarcastically, sincerely and even heard it gasped to him sexually. But it seemed a hollow term, just a cliché that didn't have a real place in his life.

He'd been called it, teased it, mocked it but through it all he'd never felt like a knight.

So it was odd that he always seemed to be riding a white horse on Wounded Heart.

Cremello if you wanted to get technical, but there really weren't any 'white' horses on the ranch and the pale cream color, blue eyes and pink muzzle was close enough that many called and considered Honeycatcher a white horse.

Dean didn't care what color he was. In fact hadn't registered the Australian Stock Horse's as any color at all until he realized that the bond he'd built with the stud drew him to ride the horse whenever he had a chance. Then it dawned on him on day while brushing Honeycatcher's fur smooth that it was white. He'd stood with his fingers carded in the stud's mane, staring almost blindly at the white fur. More looking through it to the bone and blood and muscle beneath than at it while his mind churned and thundered.

He'd never thought of it before, the connection between the knight and a white horse.

That's what they always rode. It was common knowledge, accepted fact, the prince or knight or both in the same being always rode around on a loyal white steed, charging into all kinds of dangers and wild adventures to save women and children and whole villages.

Dean pictured the Disney characters that made everything about a knight seem easy and then there was the soldier knights that charged at the head of armies into the frenzy of battle and slew all that came within a blade stroke.

Valiant. Pure. Graceful. Romantic. Strong. And a thousand other words that made up the word and image 'knight'.

And the 'steed'. A pure white horse that seemed as bold, courageous and selfless as the knights that rode them. The horses that charged head long against steel and fire, galloped through darkest nights and blistering deserts. That stood loyally unmoved when the knight left him and raced to the call of their partner when it came.

Dean wondered if all the movies and books and cartoons stereotyped the man or stereotyped the horse. It was all fantasy but Dean wondered which made the image what it was. Was a knight as impressive without a thundering, flaxen charger under him? Could a white horse make a hero of himself without a human's help and direction?

Dean could see Honeycatcher as a knight's horse. Dean could clearly picture the little stud rearing up in the face of a dragon, wild eyed and brazen, ready to kill the beast himself. He could see Honeycatcher walking softly on a wooded path, neck arched deeply while the knight carried the princess home on the back of the saddle.

He couldn't see himself in that place. In the saddle of those visions with Honeycatcher, but he could put the horse there. He wasn't a knight and never felt like one.

No matter if he preferred the company of the white horse.

Now, if he'd ever fit the lofty title of knight, it was at this moment with winter folded around him in a thick comforter of snow and ice.

Dean hadn't thought of himself as a knight when he'd tacked up and trotted out of the barn across the quiet, cold muffled pastures towards the far fence lines. His mind had drifted in the still world, sliding back to the thoughts of medieval heroes and soldiers when he thought of his only companion at the moment.

The white horse that carried him effortlessly through the deep snow.

Dean had sat back in the slowly warming, leather saddle and lightly tugged the reins, asking the horse to stop.

Honeycatcher stood still on a ridge of one of the slopes on the vast Wounded Heart Ranch territory, the horse's breath rising in clouds of vapor around his muzzle. His white fur matching the untouched snow around them that drifted up to the stud's hocks and knees. The horse waited patiently while Dean's eyes scanned the frosted world of rolling desert prairie under white, the skeletal trees and scrub of thin back wood that cast long blue stripes over the crystal surface.

He hadn't notice that even his dress seemed to match the image of a wandering knight pressing through some assignment to find the warlock casting the storm and win back the spring. Not until he was out here in the frozen, dream like world with Honeycatcher. The bitter cold of winter had forced Dean out of his leather jacket and into a thick, doe skin shirt that was a solid size too big and slung low on his hips. His torso was draped in a poncho of thick green fabric that was hemmed with soft, white rabbit fur. Fleece lined gloves that wrapped halfway up his forearms. Heavy leather riding boots laced up over his calves and blue jeans.

All he's missing is a broad sword instead of the Remington deer rifle strapped to the saddle at his knee.

Fat flakes of fresh snow tangled in his hair, slowly melting to damped his neck. They drifted and burn across his already wind bitten cheeks and nose. A few flakes got caught in his eye lashes.

Dean shifted, his mind churning and all those words crashed together, all those things that made a knight what he was. All words Dean Winchester had never and would never use to describe himself, no matter how many lives he'd save.

But he could pretend to.

He was riding a white horse after all.

"I need a dragon." He whispered to himself and the stud.

Honeycatcher snorted softly and rattled his bridle and silver bit.

"Yeah… maybe start smaller… wyvern."

The horse's head bobbed, then swung towards the west, towards the far fence line. The white horse nickered softly. Dean's head twisted to look in that direction, listening intently as if searching for something, waiting for something.

Honeycatcher snorted and pawed at the earth, kicking up snow.

"Right." Dean whistled softly in the stud's ear and pressed his knees into the horse's barrel. Honeycatcher broke from a stand to a swift trot. Snow kicked up in flurries. Dean couldn't help his body's reaction as he pretended. He felt his hands move on the reins and gave the small signals that Honeycatcher followed effortlessly.

The white stud arched his neck until his chin almost touched his chest, his ears cocked forward and the casual trot smoothed into a long, easy lope that lifted his carriage and caused deep emphasized motion. It made the long, silk mane and tail sweep and roll romantically across Honeycatcher's forehead and curved neck.

Dean's back straightened, going almost rigid, his shoulders moved back to make his chest seem wider. His eyes turned forward, locked on the path. Determined and burning with passion for missions and conquests. His jaw grit and grip tight on the reins.

A glimpse between the trees and one would have thought themselves dreaming or hallucinating at the sight of the knight and his mount gliding silent over the snow. Moving effortlessly together, lives twined by loyalty and shared combat. Sweeping like frosted ghosts, phantoms, of stories and folk tales thick with monsters, black knights and ladies in delicate crowns. Made flesh and bone from a world where Honor and Valor were things sacred. There for a heart beat of time, leaving only faint tracks in the deep snow and a lingering burning in the heart that wailed for the return and lingering presence of the knight, both comforting and terrifying, glorified and terrible.

Because this knight wasn't the kind that sang in the wood for his true love.

This was the kind of knight that had seen true battle. Had felt the deepest pains of love and loss and ached for both. The lonely kind that charged on relentlessly, took no pleasure in the hunt, in the kill, in the victory and hated bitterly the coppery taste of blood and the weight of steel in his hands. The kind of knight that took on his dragons without hesitation but dreamed fitfully of peace as he sat stiff in the cold of his saddle. The kind that was covered in scars under and above the simple armor of his skin.

This was the kind of knight that was dirty, gritty and always tired, weight down by a weariness that was deeper than bones and sinew but never rested. The kind that fought for everything and took nothing in return for his sacrifice and denied being anything but a man when called a hero. The kind of knight that was easily forgotten by all but the horse.

Honeycatcher carried the knight through the stripes of blue shadow and flashes of gold sunlight. Loping over the snow and weaving through the trees, almost as earthreal as the image that Dean was pretending they were. His long, smooth stride eating up land and pushing it behind him. The white horse snorted and nickered through his tightly arched neck, then his whinny cut through the quiet world, calling for a reply.

A sharp neigh returned the call, cutting through the trees and veering the white stud's course sharply to the left. Honeycatcher slowed and shortened his pace, tucking his rear quarter under him as the earth sloped down, The knight eased back into the saddle, setting his weight to make the movement down easy and light on the horse.

The skeletal trees thinned a little but did not drop off all together. The knight lightly tugged the reins and slowed the white horse further, snow kicking up in flurries as the seemingly wild, frozen world ended abruptly with round, wood rail tie posts, meshed wire fence and a double run of barbed wire. Honeycatcher nickered again, greeting the other horse standing free with a hoof turned back, snow dusting the saddled and fur and climbing up to the animal's knees and hocks.

The large horse was a buckskin, his black mane and tail highlighted with stripes of white here and there, stark against the burnished gold fur. Large brown eyes looked at the knight and white horse. The buckskin nickered softly in greeting but didn't move.

Beyond him, on the fence line the knight watched quietly as another creature that didn't belong in reality worked. Another soul kindred to the knight that had been warped and romanticized by the media and minds of general society.

Cowboys were supposed to be the new knights. The western knights that chased their own kinds of dragons across the frontier. That slew their savages in droves with endless shots of hot lead. Creatures that roamed in gangs with a layer of stubble and dust that rode hard all night and all day. They were reckless, drank too much, made too much noise and fought at every chance they had. Made up for all their sins with Copenhagen smiles, touches of their hats, swift draws and dead on shots that always hit bull's eye. Won their civil fights with card games or paced off duels and always left the girl with a kiss on her lips and a lonely heart.

They were nothing like that.

It was a breed that spoke so little that those few whispered words were more precious and wise and was the only kind of talk that made any sense. They were hard, rough and battered by a world of hard living and small battles that were won slowly and surely. Patience and gentleness and determination that could wait for the mountains to move and out distance the will of sun or moon. They had hands that were rough, tanned and scarred that could deliver violence so terrible and harsh it was befitting the cruelty of Hell, but were so light and soft they were chosen for healing and protecting and spoke more than the tongue ever would. They pushed through their limits and ignored their pain and own wants and needs and continued with their work, never pausing or balking from a task, no matter how small. Their eyes were wild, a ferality lingered and would never be lost as they remembered vividly the days they lived on wild land, in a time when fences didn't exist and the sky touched the earth. There was a carnal streak that was bred into them as a being that had existed in total freedom and it would never be bred out.

Their toughened hides and scarred flesh masked unbreakable wills and gentle souls, cradled carefully away from those unlike their own. Existences so intense and lonely but utterly untamable. Souls that couldn't be fenced in or tied down, souls fierce and fragile. So open, trusting, willing to protect and love they were easily shattered and twisted, scorched and scarred but knit themselves back together and bared their throats one more time, giving themselves away to be mutilated again. Restless and lonesome, always searching, always looking, praying for some place to rest. Following and fighting their nature in all ways.

The knight studied the kindred spirit and wondered at their similarities and wondered what it was like to be and exist without pretending.

The cowhand was dressed in dark jeans and heavy work boots. A suede jacket with thick fleece cuffs and fleece collar that hugged the throat. Tawny Stetson cowboy hat that was pulled low around the ears to shade the eyes and protect the neck. Gloves over hands that were meant for movement and protection instead of warmth. All the clothes were dusted with frost that crackled and broke off with each movement before it was replaced by new ice. True to the breed the creature was so tightly woven into the work of fixing a fallen fence that the knight went unnoticed.

"M'amin." The knight called softly. A half a second passed before the rancher lifted eyes at the name. Russet hair falling around exposed throat in soft waves. Brilliant, blood red eyes stood out in the heart shaped face, the wild flash hidden in the color, but there. The tawny skin of her face and throat marred by discolorations of long healed scars. Her petite fame shifted, small even under the thickness of protection against the cold.

"Hey Dean." She smiled gently but the knight could see through the mask. Kindred spirits could read each other.

She was suffering. Again, staying true to the nature of her breeding, she ignored it, pushed through it. Her tawny skin was flushed and probably hot to the touch with fever. When she should have been still her frame was racked with small tremors, her hands shaking when not trained on the task of the fence. Her eyes were glassy and exhausted. There was a rasp in her speech and a wheezing when she breathed.

"Well look at ya. Kind of look like ya should be fightin' off the black knight." Celia rasped and coughed quietly. She lifted a hand and tugged a glove off with her teeth before passing a bare hand across her nose and eyes.

The knight eased Honeycatcher closer as he reached around and pulled free a thermos from his saddle bag. "Coffee." He said simply and passed it to her when Celia pressed through the snow to meet him. She lightly took it out of his hands and fixed him with a look of grateful affection that laid her soul bare, as was custom of her kind.

"Thanks." She cracked the lid open and took a long drink.

"I came to bring you back home. You shouldn't be out here by yourself."

"Come to save me, huh?" She sighed tiredly.

"You're sick." The knight tried to keep the growl from his voice. Knights don't growl except at foes and monsters. She was neither. "And it's barely in the double digits out here. Why can't you sit still and let yourself heal? Would you kill yourself over a piece of bent fence?"

"Got to be done, Dean." The red head snorted then sniffed and suppressed a fit of coughing. "I'm the only one that can do it."

"I would have done it." The knight protested and pleaded. "If you'd asked me I would have done it. I would do anything you asked me to do, you know that."

She shrugged and took another draw from the thermos, neither denying or accepting his words.

"You're too damn stubborn." The knight muttered. "M'amin, please. Come back with me."

"It's got to get done Dean." The red head ground out, twisting the top back on the thermos and sliding it back into his saddle bag. Her hand lightly passed over his thigh and knee, patting the joint gently as she started back towards the fence. The knight felt a shiver rush from the joint up his leg to the base of his spine. It churned and hummed warmly for a second before passing.

"At least let me help you." He slid from the saddle of the white horse and trudged through the snow to her side. He worked the stiffness in his hands before reaching for the new mesh fence and pulled it taught without being told what to do.

"I figure I could let ya do that." She cast him a small smile before it fled from her face and she hardened against her work. The twist of lips a fleeting flash of that raw soul that was the blessing and curse of her breed and the sharp eyes and hands that fought passed the shakes and discomfort the creed of her kind.

He pulled and leaned his weight against the mesh wire, wishing it had gone his way and he could have swept her up into the saddle behind him and rode the white horse back to the warmth of the fireplace and hot drinks and a stretch of sleep comfortably tangled around each other on the soft fleece and warmth of a hand made blanket.

Dean wondered briefly if all knights had to deal with damsels that wouldn't tolerate being saved.

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**Hope you liked. R&R. **

**-Mary**


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